


Checked into rehab (baby, you're my disease)

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks. It isn't the longest they've gone without seeing each other, not even by half.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checked into rehab (baby, you're my disease)

The job has been bad from the beginning and it's nothing less than a complete clusterfuck now. This is why working an extraction with two people is problematic. They're stretched too thin - Arthur doing the architecture and functioning as point, and Eames on extracting and forging. Arthur taking on the father and Eames surveilling the son. Except that they're doing fuck-all currently.

Arthur absentmindedly taps a visitor's pass to the Holistic Healing Spa and Retreat against his leg. Eames has been stuck in this ridiculous rehab for rich people for three weeks, doing a job that should have taken him three days. Except that he can't get near the son. Because of course, _of course_ , the son would be allergic to methadone. Of course he'd need to be secluded while he detoxed cold-turkey.

And that's all fine, Arthur can handle all of it, delays can be managed. Except that he's antsy and irritable and has been for the past three weeks. And that's a problem.

He spots Eames, finally, at the edge of the gardens, slouched down on a bench. It's unmistakably him, even though they've buzzed down his hair, and he's wearing a standard issue cotton white shirt and drawstring pants. And it's just Eames, the same as he's always been. Except that Arthur hasn't seen him in three weeks.

"How've you been, Eames?" Arthur asks, taking a seat next to him on the bench.

Eames runs a hand over what's left of his hair and gives Arthur a wry smile.

"Utterly fantastic," he says.

Three weeks. It isn't the longest they've gone without seeing each other, not even by half. But Eames is staring at him like he's been desperate for the sight of him. Like no matter how hard it's been when they're together, it's been harder to be apart.

Arthur frowns, and immediately Eames switches expressions, studiously careless as he moves one hand over his chin.

"The kid hasn't left his bungalow yet," Eames notes.

Arthur nods. "Did you read the files I sent you?"

"Of course."

"All of them?"

Eames smiles that smile he gets when he thinks Arthur's being a condescending asshole. He places his hands over his knees.

"There's not much else to do here but read, Arthur. And masturbate. Christ, I haven't touched myself so much in fifteen years." His voice sounds worn down around the edges.

Arthur takes a breath and doesn't respond for a long moment. Because no matter what Eames may say, Arthur has quite a vivid imagination.

"It doesn't seem to be improving your mood any," he says eventually, and lets himself smile back at Eames.

"Mmm. That's the nicotine withdrawal." He looks at his hands, which haven't been still the entire time they've been talking. "Apparently, cigarettes aren't bloody holistic."

That startles a little laugh out of Arthur. He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

"Guess I should take these back then," he says and it's more than a little self-deprecating because he hadn't realized exactly how much things had changed. They've become something like a team, Arthur is resigned to that fact. He knows Eames now. The exact expanse of his shoulders, the dark curl of a starburst tattoo visible at his shirt collar, the borderline obscene curve of his lips. And he'd known that Eames would be craving a cigarette. Maybe Arthur knows him a little too well.

Eames looks at the pack of cigarettes, then back at Arthur's face and says with reverence, "Arthur, I could kiss you right now."

Arthur isn't always the most self-aware but even he recognizes the inevitable. And god this job has been shit and he's been on his own for three weeks. It was enough.

He has his mouth on Eames' before the intent to do so even fully forms in his head. And now he knows this. The warm, pleased sound Eames makes as one of Arthur's hands cups the back of his head. The jagged edges of Eames' teeth on Arthur's bottom lip. The way Eames' mouth parts under his, slick and inviting. The incongruous taste of bubblegum on his tongue.

It can't last long. Visitors are only given thirty minutes and Arthur's at the end of his.

He slips the packet of cigarettes into Eames' hand as he pulls away. Eames looks down at them, and says, "I've missed you."

He could be talking to the cigarettes. But he sounds equal parts tired and fond so Arthur knows that he's not.

It could be another three weeks before Eames can get close enough to the son to learn anything of value. Another three weeks before he can finally leave this place.

So when Eames looks up at him, Arthur smiles a little. He says, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Because Arthur knows himself. He can't wait another three weeks.


End file.
